


Look Back

by DOAE



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Bromance, Character Development, Clueless John, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friendship/Love, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Love/Hate, Low Honor Arthur Morgan, M/M, Shameless Smut, Slow Burn, Smut, sarcastic arthur is the best arthur, you get the best of both worlds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-06-25 15:03:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19748152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DOAE/pseuds/DOAE
Summary: Life had left Arthur Morgan cold, sarcastic and a whole lotta mean, but a bizarre trip into Roanoke Ridge with Marston seemed to be the start of changes for the right hand man of the Van der Linde gang.-a low honor Arthur to a high honor Arthur-





	1. Bunch of sad, sorry bastards

“Oh, here he goes,” Tilly muttered to Karen as both ladies cautiously eyed Arthur, not wanting to be next in his line of fiery insults. 

Arthur could be heard from across the camp, raucous voice cutting clear through the bark of Uncle’s laugh and Jack’s yelling for Cain.

“Little Greasy Johnny Marston,” Arthur said. “So oily even the wolves spat you out.”

Tilly nor Karen could hear John’s reply, but both saw the stiffening of John’s shoulders as he stood and walked away, his hands up in a gesture of innocent appeal.

“I hate when he gets like this,” Karen said, turning her attention back on Tilly, who was busy sewing a button back on one of Bill’s shirts. 

“What you mean? He’s always like this, there ain’t no gettin’ to it,” Tilly retorted.

“Oh, watch out and move Tilly he’s coming this way.” Karen hurriedly warned before she turned and ducked behind their wagon. Tilly wasn’t as quick.

“Good morning to you, Miss Jackson,” Arthur called in passing. 

“Good morning, Arthur,” the young girl smiled. Arthur said no more but bowed his head in response as he continued to his tent. 

“He is a man that has got so much hate in him,” Karen said, reappearing from behind the wagon.

“I don’t know. Mary-Beth says he has a rough way with people, cause he ain’t had a good life,” Tilly said, watching as Arthur disappeared behind his wagon.

“Well we all ain’t had good lives, we all ain’t living no good lives neither; he ain’t so special.” Karen said, picking up a bottle of whiskey. 

Arthur sat on his bed with a thud, his journal making its way into his hands. He untied it, and let the pages fall open. He flipped to the next blank page. He started to draw the badger he had seen earlier when he had gone hunting. The little feller had turned and looked at where Arthur was crouched on the ground feet away, its beady little eyes blinking a few times before scurrying off. 

“Soups up,” Mr. Pearson yelled a few hours later from across camp. Arthur had added some deer and rabbits to his drawing of the beady eyed Badger, not wanting him to feel alone on the white page.

As much as Arthur didn’t want to get up and get some of that god-awful stuff Pearson called soup, his stomach was protested. With a heavy sigh Arthur bound his journal tightly with the leather strap and tucked it away into his satchel. 

Arthur heard Abigail before he saw her, back up against a tree as she had a finger pointed at Marston’s chest. 

“…then, you might just raise a man,” Abigail sneered. Arthur watched with a cocked smile, waiting for whatever dumb remark Marston would say back. 

“Just like your momma did? Raise a real man, like you?” was Marston’s reply, and Arthur almost laughed out loud; he knew Marston was a fool. Abigail reared back and slapped Marston on the cheek, and with that, Arthur let out the laugh he had been holding in. Abigail glared at Arthur as she marched passed, but the heat behind her eyes belonged to Marston.

“Arthur, do you mind?” John’s voice was gravelly as he raised his arms, waving the older man off with both hands. 

“Marston, you fool,” Arthur laughed, shaking his head as he ignored the eyeroll the dark-haired man gave him. 

The soup Pearson served was, as expected, pig shit. But Arthur ate it anyway, because food was food and he’d take what he got. Warm food was better than cold food, and food at all was better than no food, and he’d be a fool to waste anything that would fill his stomach. Arthur sat on the ground around the campfire, next to his empty bowl of soup, back against the log and a bottle of whiskey next to his propped-up leg and watched as the fire burned the logs to ash. He watched as Uncle wandered over to the campfire and sat next to Marston, the younger man scooting a little further way when the old man leaned a little too close. 

The two talked about something amongst themselves, and whatever it was had Marston laughing. Something stung Arthur in the chest a little from watching the two. He had been sitting around the fire for quite some time, and no one wandered over and talked to him. Not that he cared. No, he didn’t care.

“How many times you pissed yourself today?” Arthur asked Uncle through a chuckle once it got quiet. Uncle let out a long sigh before looking over to Arthur. 

“Well, ain’t that charming,” the old man deadpanned. 

“Not this again,” Marston drawled. “Stop it, Arthur.”

“Ain’t no point in with bothering with him when he’s like that,” Abigail said as she walked by the campfire, two bowls of soup in her hands. Arthur laughed silently as he shook his head. He knew why no one wanted to accompany him. But he didn’t down right give a damn. 

He got up, leaving his bottle of whiskey where it had sat next to him all night. He wandered over to the shore of the lake and took a seat on a rotting log far enough away from camp to not be able to hear a thing. He opened his journal to a blank page. What a bunch of sad, sorry bastards, he wrote, and began drawing Marston through the flicker and flames of the fire, laughing.


	2. Sabretooth Mountain Gerbil

Arthur lost track of time some time ago. The campfire was still a flicker of light outside his tent, and he turned his back to it as he tried to shut it out. He felt cold, even under his thick coat and the thick sheet pulled up to his chin. He was tired, shit was he tired, but he never slept good enough like he should. Maybe it was all of Dutch’s plans that seemed more trouble than good, or maybe it was that the gang was slipping further and further from the family they had set out to be. Arthur pulled the sheet up passed his nose. He didn’t know, he pretended not to care, and he knew he would get up in a few hours with no sleep if anyone called on him.

“I did, I saw it,” Uncle’s voice cut through the camp, a soft whisper, even for Uncle, but Arthur still heard it as the night was dead.

“You ain’t seen nothing,” Marston said, louder than Uncle, because of course Marston didn’t think that anyone would be asleep at this time of night. Arthur rolled over in his cot, looking at the mens’ shadows that was thrown against the canvas of his tent from the flicker of the campfire.

“I did, up in the mountains, I did—I seen it. Big ugly bastard,” Uncle’s shadow waved its hands in the air as the man’s voice continued to rise.

“What? What did you see?” Marston sounded almost interested, and it made Arthur chuckle quietly.

“It was a Sabretooth Mountain Gerbil,” Uncle said, softly.

“What a _lunatic_ ,” Arthur half muttered, and half laughed into his pillow as he turned back away from the light and the shadows.

“There ain’t no such thing, you crazy old fool,” Marston laughed, and Arthur could picture the younger man shaking his head as he spoke.

“Oh, there is to. Go on up there, Roanoke Ridge, you’d see for yourself, I ain’t no fool. An if I were you, I’d done take a good hunter, those things are scary sons of bitches. Bet the pelt’ll be worth something at least.” Arthur heard Uncle stumble away, until all he heard was the sharp crack of the wood burning in the fire.

He felt it then, the heavy pull on his eyelids as he started to let go and find peace.

“Hey, Arthur,” And of course it would be John Marston to interrupt that peace that Arthur fought so hard to find.

“Arthur,” Marston whispered again.

“What do you want, Marston,” the older man’s voice nothing but a low rumble.

“Want to go huntin’?” Marston said. With a groan, Arthur threw back the sheet and pulled himself from the warmth he had created and sat on the edge of the bed, one hand propped on his knee while the other held his head, eyes locked lazily on the dark-haired man. Marston stood at the foot of his cot, hunched over Arthur’s bed like the man hadn’t enough room to stand up straight.

“Do you have any idea what time it is, Marston? And what exactly are we huntin’?”

“Uncle said—”

Arthur didn’t let Marston finish and cut him off with a curt laugh and a dismissal wave of his hands.“Uncle says a lotta things. Half the time I don’t think even he has a clue as to what he says.”

“Well, ain’t it worth checking out at least? If there’s a pelt to be sold it could be worth something.”

Arthur sighed inwardly. It was unlikely that he would get any sleep tonight, and it was better than to be dragged into whatever Dutch had planned come morning. He stood and stretched, feeling his muscles tighten and his bones crack. With a satisfied moan he pulled his boots on. “Sure, let’s go huntin’." 

*

“You come up for a story for that scar yet?” Arthur asked when the silent of the night bore down on them too hard.

“And you wonder why no one likes you,” Marston fired back the insult almost instantly, and Arthur ignored the way the words prickled across his skin. Arthur gripped the reins tighter and pressed his lips tighter together, ignoring the way his skin still felt alive and the way he kept his eyes focused on one spot on the road ahead.

“Why you got such a chip on your shoulder?” Marston suddenly said, his voice a gravelly mess.

“What you mean?” The grip on the reins tightened even more, the spot on the path ahead became harder to focus on.

“I mean, why you gotta put everyone down? We all got bad lives and ain’t none of us actin like that.”

Arthur didn’t have an answer. He did, but he didn’t know how to form it to words. Writing it down was much easier than saying it out loud. Saying it out loud meant it was breathed to life, and that made it too real.

“Shut up,” Arthur said after a long pause, and with the way the air hung still and tight around them, added, “maybe we should stop here and rest for a while, still a ways to Roanoke Ridge.”

It was probably somewhere around 3 in the morning when they got their camp set up, both sitting on opposite sides of the fire. Marston was eating beans from a can, scooping the insides with a metal spoon and causing a constant clink to resonate through the small camp.

“Would you like to eat the spoon as well, Marston, because it’s about to be down your throat if you don’t quit that,” Arthur’s voice was nothing but a gruff growl, a threat that caused John to put down the spoon.

“You know, Arthur,” Marston said, and Arthur groaned inwardly. “We used to be brothers, you and me. Now you can hardly stand to look at me.”

“Brother’s don’t go and just leave everyone behind, Marston.” It was quiet, as both men stared into the fire.

“I’m sorry for that, Arthur. Just with Jack, Abigail…” Marston let his sentence trail off with a wave of his hand. “I know we were close, and me leaving after Mary left, well, I ain’t saying I know how it feels, but…” His voice trailed off again and he sighed as he picked up the can of beans again and started scooping the insides with the spoon, trying to get what was left at the bottom.

“Marston, I’m warning you,” came a low growl. Marston tossed the can into the fire.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think Mary was good for you,” came Marston’s weak reply. Arthur wanted to tell him how wrong he was. Of course Mary was good for him, she wanted him to live a better life. Wanted him out of the gang, wanted him to be an honest man—a good man—live a life without leaving a trail of bodies behind him. He was the one that wasn’t good for Mary. He loved her, but he wouldn’t change for her. Maybe he had more love for this lifestyle than he did for her. She knew that, she had to, and that’s why she wouldn’t have him. Words he’d later write in his journal than breathe into life.

“Things in life we take pleasure in ain’t always good for us, Greasy Johnny Marston.” Was all Arthur said, of course, with a deep chuckle and a shake of his head.

“Why don’t you ever just say what you feel? What you’re thinking? How tired you gotta be from hiding all the damn time,”

“Ah damn, Marston. Give it a rest, will ya? Get some damn sleep.” Arthur ignored the sigh and the disappointed shake of Martson’s head as he made his way to his bed roll. At least out here, all that was to be heard were the bugs and the pack of wolves somewhere out over the grassy meadow.

“Might wanna sleep with ya gun, Marston I hear some wolves out there, lest they tear into you again,” Arthur laughed when he heard Marston groan.

“I’m getting real good at not listening to you,” came John’s grumbled reply.

That night, while John snored a few feet away, Arthur pulled his journal from his satchel and moved closer so the light from the campfire danced across the pages.

_Went on a hunting trip with that fool Marston. Uncle had told him about some creature that lives up in the trees on Roanoke Ridge. Marston just asked me along because there'd probably be nothing left of a man when whatever out there got a hold of him. Marston is a damned fool, but I reckon he’s right in some ways. It’s easier to stay quiet and take what I feel and put on to others than face what I feel head on. I can shoot a man while looking him in the eye, but I can’t speak on what I feel. Damn you, Mary._

Arthur wrapped his journal back up and tucked it away in his satchel with soft, gentle hands. It was the only thing Arthur ever talked to. When his last one burnt up in that fire back in the Blackwater mess, well, he’d felt like he would never be able to speak what was on his mind again. He went out then and spent what little money he had on a new one. Arthur leaned back against the tree stump behind him, stretching his legs out and moaning slightly when his felt the muscles in his legs pull tight. He was an old fool, he thought. What was he doing out here with Marston anyway? Hunting a creature—what had Uncle called it? A Sabretooth Mountain Gerbil? Arthur had never heard of such a thing. A loud snore tore Arthur’s eyes from the fire to where Marston slept a few feet away, curled up in a ball in his bedroll.

Of course, Arthur knew there wasn’t such a thing, but Marston had asked him to go hunting with him, something the two hadn’t done in quite some time, and whether Arthur wanted to admit it or not, he missed the younger man. But that didn’t mean he still wasn’t mad at him.

*

Daylight broke through the trees, the sun shifting through the leaves in heavy streaks, one landing on Arthur's face. He felt the warmth before he could open his eyes, and he felt the ache in his back even before that.

“God damn,” he muttered as he tried to move. He had fallen asleep up against the tree stump, and his back was sore all over, a stiffening pain he was sure would be there all day.

“Didn’t look too comfortable,” came Marston’s voice somewhere over Arthur’s shoulder. Although Arthur couldn’t see Marston, he could hear the smile laced around his words.

“Shut up, Marston,” Arthur said, his voice raspy with sleep.

“We should be going, suns been up for a while now,” Marston said.

“Just give me a damn minute,” Arthur said, harsher than he meant it. He was in a lot of pain, a throb that originated in his lower back and migrated up to his shoulder blades.

“If you woke up an saw me sleeping here against this stump, why didn’t ya wake me up so I could get some sleep in my bedroll?”

“I didn’t want to wake you.” Arthur rolled his eyes, fool, he thought as he pushed himself off the stump with a grunt. He turned as he tried to pop his back, and there was Marston, stripped down save for his bottoms, with a bucket and a rag he used to wash himself.

“See you finally decided to get that layer of grease off ya,” Arthur chuckled. “Better to do that now, wouldn’t want you driving away our hunt.”

“If there is even anything out there,” Arthur said when John didn’t respond. “Uncle says a lotta things. This could just be one of his delusions.” Arthur busied himself with packing up his bedroll while John finished washing. Marston had surprisingly managed to smother the fire and pack everything else up while being quiet enough to let Arthur sleep.

“It’s worth looking into at least if there’s a pelt to be sold for money,” John mumbled as he tossed the dirty water from the bucket. “There’s been talk of all kinda things happening up in Roanoke Ridge, folks have seen some strange things.”

“Folks are strange things,” Arthur said with a shake of his head.

“You ain’t wrong,” Marston laughed. Roanoke Ridge was a strange place—or rather, the folk around Roanoke Ridge were the strangest. The rolling hills and forests were pretty enough, it was just the damn folk around those parts.

“Roanoke ain’t but a few more hours,” Marston said, bringing Old Boy up next to Arthur and his horse. “Arthur I ain’t even going to lie, that place gives me the creeps.”

Arthur chuckled deeply at that. “You and me both, Marston.” The ride the rest of the way was silent, save for Arthur greeting people who rode past them. The sun was hanging low in the sky when they rode into Roanoke Ridge. Arthur led them into a small grove off the path and slid from his saddle. He grabbed a shotgun and a riffle before humming impatiently as he waited for Marston.

“I don’t wanna be huntin this thing in the dark, Marston; hurry the hell up.”

The black-haired man shot him a stern look over his shoulder as he searched through his bags for the right gun. “I don’t know what we’re gonna find, Arthur. Maybe it’s a large bear--I’m just trying to be prepared,” Marston muttered.

“For all we know Uncle just saw an overgrown rabbit,” Arthur teased, then muttered. “What the hell have I gotten myself into.”


	3. Didn't make it until tomorrow

“We’ve been out here for hours, Marston, ya think Uncle really saw this monster he claims?” came Arthur’s gruff voice. Marston turned and found the older man had sat down and was slumped against a tree, after complaining that very morning about his back hurting all night because he was slumped against a stump.

John sighed, giving up the lookout to turn and face Arthur completely.

“You think I’m an idiot for listening to him,” Marston said. It wasn't a question, but he knew by the way the air suddenly buzzed that Arthur was about to treat it like one. Hell, he could feel it.

“Marston, I’ve known you to be an idiot long before this happened,” his voice was light, and although he had his hat pulled down over his face so John couldn’t see it, he was sure he had that cocky grin on his stupid face.

“Go to hell, Arthur.”

Arthur laughed a rumbling laugh before he pulled his hat back on his head and stood with a grunt.

“All right, well let’s get to it then,” he said, picking up his shotgun and pushing through the underbrush like a bear himself. John followed far behind, wallowing in his self-pity at having been a damn fool for ever listening to Uncle in the first place. Everyone knew Marston was a fool, but he hated giving them the satisfaction of seeing him be a fool in action. Especially Arthur. At that thought, Marston perked up, quickening his pace to catch up to Arthur.

“You think I might be a fool but you’re just as one,” he said as he caught up to the older man.

“What the hell you talking 'bout, Marston?” Arthur’s voice raised at the end, signalling the man's confusion.

“You said I was a fool for listening to Uncle and coming out here, but you’re here too.”

“I never said I wasn’t a fool, I am a fool. The difference is I admit it, Marston. Admitting that I am a fool only makes me half the fool you are.” Arthur chuckled, but there was a noise that cut it short.

“Did you hear that?” Marston asked quietly, but Arthur already had his shotgun shouldered.

It was definitely a growl, somewhere from the underbrush. There a moment of silence, one so tense it begged to be broke, and it was when a creature roared and leaped from the bushes and straight onto Arthur. The man was quick and shot off a bullet, but it either missed or didn’t faze the creature because the animal latched itself onto the front of him, claws in deep in his shoulders.

“Son of a bitch,” Arthur yelled as his shot gun fell from his hands and he went down, the animal on top of him. “John, John kill it!” He yelled. The claws were still buried deep in his skin, but the pain was numbing; he felt white hot all over while the stench of blood filled the air. The animal’s growls almost drowned out Arthur’s yells, but the man's yelled echoed through the valley unmatched.

Marston cursed, took a deep breath, and fired one shot. With a sickening thud, the bullet made it’s way clean through the animals skull, blood splattering Arthur’s face.

“Get this damn thing off me,” the older man grunted.

“It’s just a cougar,” Marston said, dismayed.

“I don’t care what the hell it is, Marston, I want it off me now.”

John wrapped both arms around the beast and heaved, emitting a cry from Arthur as the claws were ripped from his flesh with a wet tear.

“God damn you son-nuvah-bitch,” Arthur growled, rolling over and burying his face into the dirt. The numbness was gone, and Arthur swore that he’d rather take multiple bullets to the knees than this. It felt like he had been ripped from head to toe instead of just his torso, and god damn, his skin felt like it was melting from the heat he felt all over. He could feel the blood pooling beneath him, soaking his shirt--but he didn’t dare move. He’d lie there until he died.

Marston was talking, God was he talking, but Arthur couldn’t hear him. Didn’t want to. He wanted to die right there, drowning in his own blood. The pain shot up into his head and down into his stomach when Marston moved him, pushing him over onto his back.

“Doesn’t look good,” Marston deadpanned. 

Arthur’s eyes fell closed then.

*

He woke up stiff and his entire body stung something fierce. He was, for Christ Sake’s, slumped up against a stump. A small campfire burned a few feet away, the flame small but he could feel the heat from it.

“Marston?” he called.

“Arthur Morgan,” came John’s voice from the other side of the fire.

“Give me some damn whiskey,” Arthur grumbled.

“You know, you can’t tease me about the wolves no more,” Marston laughed lightly as he handed over a half drank bottle of whiskey.

“You got attacked by a couple ol’ wolves. I got attacked by the Sabretooth Mountain Gerbil.”

“It was a cougar, Arthur, and you nearly bled to death.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He was bandaged around his torso, making it hard for him to move, but he leaned back with a grunt to down the entire bottle of whiskey in one gulp.

“Did you at least skin it? It’s pelt outta be worth somethin’,” Arthur said after a burp.

“Yeah, it’s pretty nice too. I got us some good food,” Marston beamed, poking the fire where he had been cooking two pieces of meat. When he deemed them cooked, he handed one off to Arthur and sat back next to the man.

Even opening his mouth to chew hurt like a son of a bitch. But hell, the way Marston was watching him to see if he was okay made him push back the pain and take a bite of the meat anyway.

“You okay?” Marston asked, watching the older man wince every time his jaw moved.

“Yes, Marston, now be quiet.”

“That cougar was pretty big,” Marston said, after a solid three minutes of silence.

“They don’t have to be very big to take a man down. With those damn claws no one would have a chance,” Arthur sighed at the lack of silence, then hesitated before adding more quietly, “thank you.”

“I ain’t done nothing you wouldn’t do for me,” Marston said, taking a bite of his food. The way he tore the meat from the stick made Arthur grimace and touch one of his wounds.

“Arthur, I know anymore that you hate me but I ain’t goin' let you die,” the younger man breathed.

“Christ, Marston, I don’t hate you. You is just…well I ain’t gonna lie, you do annoy the hell outta me but, nah, I don’t hate you.”

Arthur watched again as Marston tore the meat from the stick, this time wondering if Marston always looked so pissed when he ate food.

“I’m kinda glad to be out here with you,” Marston said around a mouth full of food. “Gets me away from Abagail and even Dutch,” he thought for a second, chewing on the food in his mouth before he continued. “Arthur, does Dutch ever seem…off to you lately?”

“Dutch always seems a little off, but ever since what happened in Blackwater he seems more off than usual, I admit.”

Arthur had noticed it in the mountains, in Colter. Dutch put robbing a train before the safety and health of the gang, something he hadn’t done before. Dutch always had a small sense of direction, of right and wrong, but Arthur watched the man lose a little bit of that sense in the mountains. And now Arthur wondered if he weren’t losing a little bit more each day they moved further east. But Dutch was Dutch and Arthur respected that, respected the man who showed him a life worth living.

“I’m sure he’ll come out of it with everything that happened since Blackwater,” Arthur said as an afterthought, wanting to leave no doubts about Dutch lingering in John’s mind.

It was quiet for a while, just the crackling of the fire and the songs of the bugs in the woods calming Arthur and helping sooth the pain he felt all over. It was well into the night before either one of them spoke, and it was, as always, Marston who broke the silence.

“I am sick of the way Abagail treats me,” he said, causing Arthur to blink rapidly to make sure he wasn’t dreaming at the suddenness and randomness of John’s statement.

“Are we going to talk about our feelings now? I just got mauled by a Sabretooth—”

“It was a cougar, Arthur. I just don’t know what she expects from me, she thinks I’m a fool.” John waited for Arthur to say something, but the older man just looked at him, his blue eyes orange in the light of the fire. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

“Marston,” Arthur started to say.

“What? You’re goin' say I am a fool, and maybe I am but I am trying to be a father to boy that I don’t know how to be a father to. How does that make me a fool?”

Arthur was shaking his head already. “That doesn’t make you a fool. Running and bein' scared makes you a fool. You ever think maybe she’s like she is because you ran off and left like you did.”

“I left because I was…” Marston stopped abruptly, realizing that he almost said the word to Arthur, almost let the one person he’d never admit it to hear him say it. But Arthur knew. Of course he knew, John could tell by the way the older man’s face went soft and his lips went lax.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with being scared, but don't show it.” Arthur said.

“You ever been scared, Arthur?” the question came so quietly.

Arthur looked at John, the younger man’s dark eyes focused on Arthur so hard as if his answer would change something in John's life.

“I’m human,” was all Arthur said.

Marston fell asleep shortly after that, laying a little too close to the fire for Arthur’s comfort, so the older man stayed awake to make sure Marston wouldn't roll over and catch himself on fire.

With pain shooting through his torso, Arthur grunted and reached over to his satchel. He pulled out his journal and flipping to a blank page, started to draw Marston asleep next to a fire.

_Got attacked by a cougar that jumped me out of nowhere. Marston shot the damn thing and saved my life. That kid annoys me like nothing I’ve ever known but I guess I’m thankful for him. For now. Less tomorrow he does something moronic._

Arthur wrote under his sketch.

Marston snored and rolled over in his sleep, his jacket landing just at the edge of the fire. It smoked before bursting into flames.

“Marston, hey, Marston!” Arthur yelled, giving one hard kick to John’s side. The younger man jumped up, hand shooting down to his gun. His head whipped around, looking for whatever it was he thought was attacking him before he settled, eyes coming to rest on Arthur, still leaned up against the stump.

“What the hell, Arthur?” He said, his jacket sleeve crawling with fire.

Arthur sat, head cocked and eyes curiously roaming Marston’s face. “Your jacket is on fire,” he said, causally.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Marston panicked, and instead of taking off the jacket to put the fire out, Marston started smacking at the fire with his other sleeve.

Arthur picked up his pencil, a small smile on his lips as he wrote in his journal:

_The fool didn’t even make it to tomorrow._

And drew a quick sketch of Marston on fire.


	4. If anyone ever did

“John Marston!” The voice rang out before the two men even made it past the tree line into camp.

“How the hell did she even see me?” John breathed to Arthur as they broke into the clearing where the camp was set.

“You’ve been gone for three days. Just up and left just like that without saying a word, making us worry,” Abigail yelled, hand on her hip and blue eyes full of heat. The two men hadn’t even gotten off their horses yet. “Makin’ me think someone up and kidnapped you.”

Arthur laughed at that, nearly falling from his horse and groaning as the pain seared through his body.

“I assure you Miss Abigail, ain’t no one but you wants this damn fool,” Arthur chuckled.

Abigail’s attention went to Arthur, and if it weren’t for the pain he was already in, he might have felt the sting of that glare she gave him. “You couldn’t even take a bath before coming back to wash the blood off ya? What’s the matter with you two?”

“I was attacked by a cougar out there, nearly bled to death,” Arthur said defensively. “Ain’t even gonna ask if I’m okay.”

“You sure are walkin, talkin, breathin’ just fine, ain’t ya?” she barked at him, giving him and Marston one more look over before turning with a huff and leaving.

Marston hadn’t said a word, just looked at Arthur with a tiredness in his eyes and followed pursuit behind Abigail.

“Well, Arthur,” John said as he turned back to face the man. “It was…nice to be away for a minute. Heal up, will ya?”

Arthur just waved the boy off and turned, heading in the direction of his tent. He passed Dutch’s, and inadvertently made eye contact with the gang leader himself.

“Arthur, what in the hell happened?” said Dutch, stepping out from inside his tent.

“Ah, just a hunting accident is all, I’m fine.” Arthur waved off his bloody shirt and wounds.

“Well be careful out there, son. We’re gonna need more money and food soon,” Dutch sighed.

Arthur eyed Dutch carefully, wondering if he had made that comment because he was worried that without Arthur, the camp wouldn’t survive. Or if that had just been weighing heavily on his mind lately.

He didn’t ask.

“I know, I know. I’m doing what I can,” Arthur spoke lowly.

Dutch patted Arthur’s shoulder like he was consoling a child, sending searing pain down Arthur’s torso. He didn’t much say anything else before he turned and retreated to his tent.

Arthur stood there a moment more, waiting for the pain to settle down a little so that he could bear to walk the rest of the way to his tent. He made it to his bed, relief drowning him and comfort welcoming him as his head sank into the pillow.

“Mister Morgan,” Karen’s voice came, making Arthur roll his eyes as they fluttered close, a heavy sigh leaving him.

“Mister Morgan,” came her shrilled voice again.

“My God you’re annoying, Karen,” Arthur said in a breath. Karen was standing over him now, looking down while he still laid in his bed.

“Don’t you start,” she warned. “I need your help. I went into Valentine for a time, and these men went and took all my money and jewelry.”

“Karen, Karen, Karen,” Arthur tsked. “To come in here thinking I would actually help you. You sure are funny.”

“Arthur, please I worked real hard to earn those things.”

Arthur closed his eyes at her pleading, breathing in deeply to push what insults he was about to say back down. He just wanted to rest, to sleep in his bed rather than on the ground or up against a god forsaken stump. No, he wasn’t going to do it. To hell with Karen and her money and jewelry. She had probably gotten drunk and passed out, leaving herself open to get robbed. Damned fool.

_And you wonder why no one likes you,_ he heard John’s voice echo in his head. _Why you gotta put everyone down, we all got bad lives and ain’t none of us actin’ like that._

Arthur opened his eyes to Karen’s green ones staring back at him. He furrowed his brow and sat up, pushing her away.

“Oh, all right god damnit,” he groaned.

“Thank you, Arthur. I’ll go get Tilly,” Karen said.

“Wait, why do we need Tilly for?” Arthur questioned, but Karen had already walked away.

Arthur sat there on the edge of the bed, the pain in his torso throbbing a beat that radiated up into his head. There was Bill, Javier, Marston, Lenny, hell, even Micah—so why the hell had Karen asked Arthur? Deep down Arthur had a feeling he would help anyone in the gang when the need rose, but he didn’t actually want to do it.

He let loose a long, loud groan as he stood, silently wishing the cougar had ripped him to shreds.

*

“Listen, we ain’t robbin’ no one, we ain’t goin’ to cause no trouble. We just find the men who took Karen’s cash and we get out,” Arthur snapped for the third time on the way to Valentine. Karen, her loudmouth, had not stopped talking about a plan she wanted go through once in Valentine, a way to get her cash back and even more, she said.

Arthur loved robbing, making money and taking from those who didn’t need it just as much as any other outlaw, but damnit he was tired and wounded. And for whatever reason, Uncle had tagged along, doing nothing but encouraging Karen.

“She means well, I reckon,” Tilly finally spoke up, from where she sat behind Arthur on his horse. Uncle and Karen rode ahead of them, scheming.

“I don’t think she ever mean’s well. I just want to get her damned shit and get out,” Arthur muttered. “I’m all for it another day. And why in the hell is Uncle going?”

“Reckon he just wanted to come along for the fun of it,” Tilly laughed.

“The fun of it, huh,” Arthur sighed.

“You know, Mr. Morgan, you can be a real devil of a man. But I think it’s real nice you helping Karen now when no one else will, and being all tore up like you is.”

Arthur turned in the saddle at Tilly’s words, looking at her with a furrowed brow. “What you mean no one else will?”

“She asked just about everyone back at camp and none said they’d help. I don’t know what made her ask you but you was the only one who said yes.”

Arthur turned back in his saddle and stared at the ground, cursing Marston silently, because Marston’s voice had been the one stuck in his head, had been the one that made him agree to help Karen when he didn’t want to.

“Yeah, well, I ain’t want to. But I reckon if she needed the help,” he said after a moment.

“Can I ask you something, Mr. Morgan?” Tilly questioned quietly. Arthur laughed harshly but and made a go-on-gesture with his hand. “Mary-Beth said you ain’t had a good life and you ain’t good with women and that’s why you’re so mean.”

Arthur spun in his saddle again. “That ain't much of a question," he muttered and then, louder, said, "Mary-Beth said that?”

He had, one drunken night, spilled to Mary-Beth part of his woes and why no one would have him. He hardly remembered the night, but Mary-Beth always looked at him a little differently since then. 

When Tilly nodded her head, Arthur said, “ain’t good with women? It ain’t that I ain’t good with them, all right? Mary-Beth said that? You think I’m mean, Miss Jackson?” Arthur’s voice was a rambling hot mess, raised a little to loud to having been talking to someone sitting inches from him.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Morgan,” she said and reached forward, placing a small hand on his back. “I just think you got a lot on your mind all the time.” Arthur shrugged it off with a grunt, stopping himself from lashing out at the lady with an insult. _I mean, why you gotta put everyone down? We all got bad lives and ain’t none of us actin like that,_ came Marston’s voice again. Arthur groaned again, this time trying to get that damned gravelly voice out of his head.

Arthur could smell Valentine before they had entered the shithole of a town. There was a certain charm about it, Arthur thought, besides the pig shit. They rode up to the saloon and hitched their horses.

“They hang around the saloon a lot, probably inside,” Karen said, motioning them to follow her.

It was around five in the evening, and the saloon was full of drunks and morons playing poker and bastards yelling about other bastards. It all made Arthur want a drink.

“Arthur, Arthur, that’s em’ right over there,” Karen said. Arthur followed to where she pointed, to a table where two larger men sat. One was bald with a beard that reached his chest, two pistols hanging from his hip and a smoke hanging from his mouth. The other one, well, he reminded Arthur of Bill: big with a blank expression on his face that made one wonder if he had a single thought bouncing around in that head of his.

Of course the two that had stolen from Karen had to be the biggest guys in the saloon, Arthur thought before heading over in their direction. The two men had already eyed Arthur before he even approached their table.

“Must be tough, lookin’ like you,” Arthur shot off first thing, because he already knew trying to talk some sense to guys like that was useless.

“This ain’t goin’ to go well,” Karen said as she sat down around the bar with Uncle and Tilly.

“It’s Arthur, what’d you expect: he was goin’ to walk up to em’ and ask them nicely for your stuff back?” Uncle laughed. He laughed again when the bald-headed man stood up and reared back, punching Arthur in the jaw. The Bill-look-a-like was on Arthur next.

The wounds from Arthur’s shoulders began throbbing with enough pain he thought he would blackout right there before he even got a punch in. But with a grunt he knocked the hand away that had a hold on his collar and threw a punch to the ugly bastard on him. The man staggered, giving Arthur enough time to get to his feet.

The bald man came for him again, but Arthur managed to dodge his fist—but dodged directly into the other man’s punch that landed right above Arthur’s eye.

“Uncle, a little help,” Arthur called.

“You know I ain’t much for fighting,” came Uncle’s slurred response somewhere over Arthur’s shoulder at the bar. Arthur heard Uncle say his thanks as the man behind the bar handed him his drink.

Arthur took another hit to the jaw, the pain causing his eyes to water, and he swung back, hitting the bald man square in the chest. He staggered back down into his chair, heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

The other man came at Arthur, head on, tackling him onto the table behind them. Arthur landed right in the middle of the card game the men had been playing, and they cursed at them as they threw their cards and moved away from the fight.

Arthur was getting punched it seemed from every damn direction, and he swore he would feel his wounds being tore open all over again. Arthur could only get a few punches in because he was already weak, damn it.

The man was thrown from Arthur and he was able to take a loud, deep breath in as the weight was lifted off of his already wounded body.

“For Christ’s sakes, Arthur,” came Marston’s gravelly voice. “You just about bled to death and already are back to starting fights.” Arthur watched as Marston gave a few good hits to the man’s face, then stomach, and finally the man fell with a thud to the hardwood floor.

"Well Marston, I didn't exactly pick the first fight," Arthur heaved.

Marston had his back turned to the bald man, who still sat in the chair, trying to catch his breath.

“Okay tough guy,” Arthur said, approaching the man in the chair. “I just need the stuff you took from my friend,” he said, turning and pointing to Karen.

“Your friend?” Karen beamed from the bar and waved when the bald man looked in her direction.

“I don’t know what you're talking about, I didn’t take nothing,” he spat. Arthur grabbed the man by the front of his shirt, despite his shoulders and arms protesting, and gave the man a good shake.

“You better tell him,” Marston said.

When the man stared back at Arthur silently, the big man raised a fist.

“You gonna tell me or do I have ta’ hit it outta ya damnit.”

“Okay, okay, here, just take it and leave me alone,” the man pleaded. Arthur released the man and waited for him to empty his pockets. The man threw the jewelry and money on the table before moving passed Arthur to collect the man on the floor and leaving the saloon.

“God damn, all this for a few dollars and a cheap ring,” Arthur muttered as he collected the items from the table.

“Oh, my hero,” Karen swooned. “My…disgusting, bloody hero.”

“Karen, take your damn things and get off me,” Arthur warned as he tried to push the woman who had latched herself on to him off. She let go and ran back to the bar and sat down next to Tilly. Uncle was leaned over the counter, passed out, bottle still in his hands.

Arthur sat down at the table to two men had previously occupied and Marston sat down across from him, eyeing him closely.

“Marston, what the hell are you doing here?” Arthur said.

“Abigail told me you was fixin’ to come here to help Karen get some stuff back that was stolen from her. You was already hurt so I just wanted to make sure you got out alive was all.”

“You care about my wellbeing now Marston, is that it? After almost getting me killed in Roanoke Ridge,” Arthur practically yelled that last sentence, wincing as his chest throbbed from the huge breath.

“Shut up. I saved your life, I’d say we’re about even now.”

“Marston, if you saved my life everyday for the next ten years we still wouldn’t be even. I’ve been saving your sorry life since the day we met.”

Marston shook his head at Arthur’s words and fiddled with the piece of wood that was sticking up out of the table.

“Why are you here anyway?” Marston asked. “You don’t even like Karen.”

Arthur gripped the bottle in his hands tighter because if he didn't, he was damn well tempted to throw it at Marston. Because of course, all of this was his fault.

“We both know the real reason why you’re here is to get away from Abigail,” Arthur chuckled, changing the conversation so that he wouldn’t have to tell John he was only there because he couldn’t get his voice out of his head.

Marston let a small smile creep at the edges of his lips and dipped his head, hiding it from Arthur’s wandering eyes.

“That woman, my God,” Marston said quietly.

*

Karen and Tilly had already carried Uncle back off to camp by the time Marston and Arthur left the saloon. The moon was high and the temperature had dropped by a few degrees as they stumbled down the steps.

“Tilly took Old Boy back to camp,” Marston said when they both approached Arthur’s white horse. Marston didn’t ask, but Arthur knew what the boy was getting at.

“Well, I’ll see ya back at camp then,” Arthur said, chuckling lightly.

“Now, Arthur, I came all the way out here to make sure you were gonna be okay—”

“Marston, shut the hell up and get on or I’m leaving ya.”

The two left Valentine, drunk and covered in blood. They didn’t speak for a while, and Arthur began to wonder if Marston had fallen asleep.

“I really did come to check on ya,” Marston finally said, all too quietly.

Arthur felt his skin prickle at his words.

“Ah, I’m okay,” the older man said back after a pause.

“I still think of ya like I did before we drifted apart, ya know.”

“Shut up, Marston.” Arthur pleaded and gripped the reins tighter.

“I think you made Tilly and Karen both a lil’ happier tonight. I haven’t seen them laugh like that in a while.”

“They aren’t the ones covered in blood and hurtin’ like a son of a bitch,” Arthur grunted, then added, because he felt ashamed, “Did you know Mary-Beth told Tilly that I ain’t good with women? Told her that’s why I’m so mean because I ain’t good with women.” He would probably never let that go.

Marston laughed lightly before he said, “that’s probably how she understood it. You just ain’t good with people, ain’t good with how they treat ya, that’s why you’re mean. You ain’t good with people and you treat them all the same.”

The rest of the ride was quiet; Arthur was tired, damn he was tired of talking.

Back at camp, Arthur dumped Marston off at his tent before making his way to the campfire. No one was there, so Arthur grabbed his journal and sat as close to the fire as he could.

_I was in camp today for ten whole minutes before I got dragged into some shit for Karen. Tilly told me that Mary-Beth told her I was so mean because I ain’t no good with women. I can’t believe that’s why people think I’m mean. No good with women!?_

_Well I reckon I ain’t no good with women. I don’t think I’m much mean either. And, It ain’t that I ain’t good with women, all right? You get close to people and they leave ya, maybe sometimes not of their own will but they leave ya, and after some time you just ain’t gonna get close to no one no more cause ain’t nobody ever gonna stay. Even Johnny Marston left._

_That lunatic showed up at the saloon when I was getting the daylights knocked outta me. For the second time, he saved my life. Said he wanted to check up on me, to make sure I was okay. Felt weird, it did, because no ones cared for me in a long time. If anyone ever did anyway._


	5. Dumbest son-nuvah-bitch

Arthur dozed off under the shade of the small wispy tree that sat near the edge of the cliff that overlooked the valley just beyond camp. He had his hat pulled down covering his face, legs crossed at his ankles, and his shirt unbuttoned down to his navel.

He could hear the gang a distance away at camp, could hear Abigail yelling for Jack, Dutch and Molly fighting like no one could hear, and then there was Uncle and Marston over top all that, arguing about some man-bear-pig Uncle claimed resided in an old house just West of Van Horn.

“You think I’m gonna listen to you again you old fool?” came Marston’s voice.

“This time I swear to it, it’s really there,” Uncle protested.

Arthur chuckled to himself at their conversation, shook his head and tried to block out the rest of what they were saying. He scooted down against the tree, sighing when the cool breeze blew across his bare chest.

It had been several weeks since his torso was ripped to shreds by the cougar, and while he had healed slowly, he was thankful some of the pain subsided. He’d wake up in the dead of night with his chest throbbing with pain to a beat he could not keep up with, sweat pouring from him like he had just climbed out of the river.

“Hey, Arthur,” Dutch’s voice cut through the peaceful curtain Arthur had hung up around him. “It’s been a long time since we’ve went fishing, hasn’t it, son?”

Arthur lifted the tip of his hat up with one finger so that he could just barely make out Dutch standing a few feet away.

“Yeah, I reckon it’s been a lil’ while,” Arthur murmured.

“What do you say we go on a little fishing trip, just you and me?” Dutch offered, waving his cigar in the air as he talked.

“Sure, Dutch,” Arthur answered, pushing himself off the ground with a grunt.

*

They were out in the middle of the lake, reeling in fish and checking to see who had hooked the biggest one before throwing them back into the water. And Arthur hadn’t felt that content in a long time.

“He called it a what?” Dutch laughed with a slow shake of his head.

“Said it was a Sabretooth Mountain Gerbil,” Arthur said. “Damn thing was one of the biggest cougars I’d ever seen.”

“It scares me that he actually believes the stuff he says,” Dutch laughed again.

“I don’t think he even knows half of what comes out his mouth,” said Arthur.

The two fished a little longer in silence, until Dutch put his pole down and turned to Arthur.

“Do you remember when you were younger, and we first picked up poor John? He followed you around, hell, all over the place and you hated it. As time went on, you started to warm up and then before I knew it you two were more brothers than anyone I’d ever seen.” Dutch smiled at the memory and shook his head. “I remember the day he got in trouble with the law and you took it upon yourself to break in and get him, without asking me or Hosea. We were so furious with you, and when we asked you just what were you thinking, you said, ‘I’d do anything for family’. I remember that, son, I do.”

Arthur twisted his pole in his hands, remembering dragging Marston all the way back to their camp and seeing the looks on Hosea’s and Dutch’s face when they realized what he had done. A lot of things in life scared Arthur, and that had been one of the scariest.

“Yeah, I remember,” Arthur chuckled lightly.

“It’s that attitude, Arthur, that willingness to fight for each other that I need—that we all need to survive. Ain’t no one I know that strong like you to sacrifice so much for others they care for. This gang is all we got, the only family we have. We need money, Arthur, if we want to survive.”

“I know, Dutch, I’m working really hard,” Arthur said, his voice taut.

“I know, son, I appreciate it just as much as everyone else at camp. But there’s a job that needs done. I overheard some gentlemen in Valentine talkin’ about a coach heading out to Van Horn, with a lot of gems worth more than enough to get everyone fed.”

“Dutch, shouldn’t we stay low for a while, let everything cool down,” Arthur didn’t ask, but almost pleaded.

“We can’t let those fools win, Arthur. Our people are depending on you. We need you now, son.”

Arthur turned and threw the fish he had caught back into the water, and watched as it swam away, back to where it wouldn’t get tricked into taking the bait.

“Sure, anything to help, Dutch.”

*

“Bill, Marston, Lenny, you’re coming with me,” Arthur said once he got back to camp.

“For what?” came Bill’s rough voice over by the campfire.

“Got a job, now get the hell up.” Arthur called over his shoulder as he headed for the horses.

“Anything to get me out of here for a while,” Lenny said, following close behind the older man. Marston was there, always, following orders.

“Where are we going, Arthur?” Lenny asked as they rode out from camp. It was almost noon, and Dutch said the coach would be leaving Valentine around then. They needed to hurry.

“A little ways pass Valentine. There’s a stagecoach transporting diamonds and gems to Van Horn. We gotta stop it an get the gems,” Arthur said over his shoulder.

Marston rode up next to him, eyeing him curiously. “Why are we doin’ this? Shouldn’t we be stayin’ low and not drawing more attention to us?”

“We need the money, Marston, or we won’t survive. Dutch has this all planned out.” Arthur sighed, but when he saw the worried look Marston shot him, he didn’t think the dark-haired man believed that last part—not that Arthur blamed him; Arthur himself didn’t know if he really believed Dutch’s plans anymore.

They rode to a small cliff overlooking the plains just outside of Valentine just some time after noon.

“Dutch said they’d be ridin’ through here around this time,” Arthur said.

“What’s the plan, Morgan? We goin’ blow them to pieces and take the jewels?” Bill said.

Arthur turned, squinted at the man, and gave him one curt shake of his head. While Arthur didn’t like most people, there was just something about Bill he really did not like—the dumb bastard. Maybe it was the uncontrollable urge Bill had to act first and think later, landing them in more trouble than they ever needed.

“I’ll give it to ya, Bill: I’ve met a lot of idiots in my time and you, you are the biggest one of them all. Saying a lot, too, cause I’ve met a lot.”

“Shut it, Morgan,” Bill whined.

“The plan is to be quick and smart: get in there and get them and get out before they realize what’s happened. We don’t wanna go in there blowin’ anything up and drawing attention,” Arthur said, looking to Bill as he spoke the last sentence.

“How we goin’ do that?” Lenny asked.

“Lenny, you and John will distract them while me and Bill get the gems from the back. I can pick the lock box, but you gotta give me time.”

“What am I goin’ do while you pick the box, Morgan?” Bill asked.

Arthur sighed inwardly, wishing that Javier wasn’t on watch so that he could have asked him along instead of damned Bill.

“You’ll shut up and help handle anything that gets in the way.” Arthur told him. Arthur watched as Bill opened his mouth to protest, but Marston cut him off as he turned their attention to just up the path, to where it bent and turned just beyond their line of sight.

“Hey, Arthur, I think that’s them,” he said. A stagecoach, surrounded on each side by three horsemen, turned down the path and headed in their direction. Arthur couldn’t quite make out the stage driver, but it had to be the one Dutch told him about; why else would it be guarded?

“All right, you two, head down there and me and Bill will sneak around the back.”

The two men watched as Marston and Lenny rode down the hill and abandoned their horses in the tree line before walking out onto the same path the coach was heading down.

Arthur and Bill headed in the opposite direction, going wide and circling back around so that they could approach the stagecoach from behind.

“You sure this’ll work, Morgan?” Bill asked, following Arthur’s lead as they left their horses at the base of the hill.

“I ain’t quite sure of anything.”

They waited until Marston and Lenny had the coach stopped before they moved closer, waiting for the three horsemen to move. It took them a minute to become curious enough to move to the front of the coach, leaving the back wide open for Arthur.

The older man motioned for Bill to follow as he crept up the path, his eyes locked on the lock box attached to the back of the coach.

“Get outta the way,” Arthur heard one of the horsemen say to Lenny and Marston when they were within earshot.

“No, no, no. You don’t understand. My friend here got bit by a snake and we need help,” Marston said, and Arthur would give it to the young man—he sounded damned convincing. _Would never be as good as Hosea, though,_ Arthur smiled to himself.

Arthur made it to the lock box with Bill hovering over his shoulder. Arthur’s hand was steady as he began picking the lock. 

“And I’m tellin’ ya, we don’t care, move.” The man on the horse said.

“Can’t ya help him at all? He’s gonna die. Maybe give us a ride into town, will ya?” Marston pleaded.

“Hurry up Morgan,” Bill whispered.

Arthur ignored him, shaking his head and shrugging off the stink of Bill’s hot breath on his neck as he focused on picking the lock.

“Get out of the way, or I’ll shout ya,” the man said.

“Arthur, they’re blowing it. What do you want me to do?” Bill whispered again.

“I want ya to shut up, Bill. Can you do that?”

Arthur didn’t hear what Bill muttered, too focused on the lock, when a shot rang out over his shoulder. Arthur dropped the pick in the dirt and cursed as he covered his ears as the ringing from the shot caused him to go momentarily deaf. The coach lurched forward as the driver tried to get away from the gunfire.

Arthur turned, heated eyes locked on Bill as his shotgun was shouldered and smoking.

“What the hell are you doing?” Arthur yelled. Bill, the dumb bastard, shook his head and fired another shot, aimed at the driver of the coach. He must’ve hit his target because the coach veered off the path too sharply and flipped in the grass. Arthur couldn’t hear them, but the horses still attached to the coach whipped this way and that, bucking something fierce. 

Arthur was brought back to the moment as shots still rang out as the three men on horses fired back.

“Son of a bitch,” Arthur yelled, reaching for his pistol. Lenny had taken care of one of the men, the other one firing shots at Marston, while the last headed in Arthur’s direction.

Arthur fired three shots, all three hitting the man in the torso. He went limp on his horse, falling over it’s neck before slowly sliding to the ground. The ringing in Arthur’s ears subsided as he heard the thud as the man’s body hit the ground.

Arthur turned and watched as Marston shot down the last horsemen.

“Goddamnit, Bill, you had one goddamn job!” Arthur yelled, again, fingers squeezing tightly around his pistol as he stumped over to where Bill stood against the coach. “You are the dumbest son-nuvah-bitch I ever met.”

“Shut up, Morgan. Your plan wasn’t workin’ and I did what I had to do. You’re welcome,” Bill sneered. He turned, heading back to his horse.

Arthur shoved him when he passed, ready for a fight if Bill turned and wanted one. But the man just stopped and glared before walking on.

Arthur gripped his pistol even tighter in his hand, so tight his fingers began to ache.

“Let it go, he ain’t worth it anyway, Arthur,” Lenny said. “If ya want, I’ll follow him back to camp to make sure he doesn’t go doin’ nothing stupid.”

“Yeah, s’good idea,” Arthur muttered through clenched teeth. He sighed, then added, lightly, “good shootin’, kid. You did good.”

Lenny beamed before he turned and followed Bill, leaving Arthur and Marston alone at the coach.

“God damn idiot,” the older man breathed. He watched Bill for a moment more before turning and trying to pick the box once more. It popped open only after a short time, the gems and cash inside dumping out onto the ground.

Arthur dumped the gems into his bag.

“Arthur,” John called from the front of the coach. There was something in his voice, something foreboding that Arthur couldn’t place, that made the man inch his way slowly to where Marston was standing at the head of the coach. Arthur felt the guilt hit him like a hundred icy daggers to the gut when he saw what Marston was looking at.

“He ain’t but a kid,” Marston almost whispered. “It’s why I wasn’t gonna shoot if it came to it.”

The coach driver, who was laying in a pool of blood, a single shot to the head, was a mere boy of at least thirteen. Arthur stared, and stared, and stared. And suddenly, shooting Bill didn’t seem like that bad of an idea.

“God damnit,” came a small whisper from Arthur as he finally turned and looked away. “Let’s get out of here, Marston. I don’t want to be here and Pinkerton’s bound to show up.”

“You want to go back to camp, or?”

“Or what, Marston?”

John was quiet a minute. “Why don’t we go get some drinks? In Valentine, before heading back.”

“Sure, just a few,” was all Arthur said, because if he went back to camp now, he might put a bullet in Bill’s head.

*

“How much you cost, anyway?” Arthur said as he leaned up against the bar. The two women who were unfortunate enough to end up in his path turned to each other and giggled before turning back.

“Both of us together?” The one with the dark hair asked. “It’ll be cheaper if we go now,” she fanned herself.

Marston watched from the other side of the bar, hoping, despite Arthur’s sour mood, that he wouldn’t end up bedding the two.

“Right now? Ah, no, I haven’t quite had enough to drink to want to bed ya yet,” Arthur chuckled. And John almost spat out his drink. The two women’s smiles disappeared as disgust took their place and they each turned back to look at each other, rolling their eyes.

“That ain’t no way to talk to a lady,” the blonde said.

“Oh, I didn’t know I was talkin’ to a lady,” Arthur shot back, and the two women stormed passed him, shoving him at the shoulder.

Marston shook his head when Arthur caught his eye, and a small smile crept onto Arthur’s face.

“Remember when you were mad cause Tilly said Mary-Beth told her you were mean cause you ain’t no good with women?” Marston laughed when Arthur slumped down in the seat next to him. Arthur waved to the bartender for a drink.

“I’m a fine dandy and charmer,” Arthur deadpanned. “I ain’t mean and if I were it ain’t because of no damned women.”

“Right you are, to hell with women!” A man next to Arthur yelled, raising his drink up while spilling half of it back on himself. Arthur turned, blue eyes sizing the man up and down. Marston pleaded to whatever god was out there to stop letting people approach Arthur this way, as if the man was friendly. The man didn’t even look approachable—sure, he was an attractive man, but he was an outlaw through and through and looked every inch of one—so why did people keep approaching him? Marston downed his drink, not knowing the answer.

“Will you shut the hell up? Can’t you see we’re having a conversation here?” Arthur threatened.

“Oh, my bad, sir,” the man apologized and turned back away from them.

“Arthur, you’re a pretty mean son of a bitch,” Marston smiled with his words.

“Your friends right, mister,” the man said as he whipped back around to face them, his drink spilling on the counter and a little onto Arthur’s trousers. Arthur oh-so-slowly turned, glaring something fierce, like he was trying to put the fear of God himself in the man.

“I told you to shut the hell up,” Arthur warned, pausing between each word and inching closer to the man. He backed up away from Arthur but didn’t leave his seat. Shaking his head, Arthur turned back to Marston. _Not tonight, Arthur,_ he thought to himself. _No fights. No fights._

“Although Karen seems to of taken a liking to you all of a sudden,” Marston said, continuing their conversation. When Marston spoke of the so-called new relationship development between Arthur and Karen, the older man swore he saw a flicker of something in John’s eye. It wasn’t quite the fierceness of anger, nor frustration…Arthur had never seen it before. He shrugged it off.

“Just cause I helped get back some of her money. She goin’ forget all about it in a couple weeks.”

“That’s where I know you from, you were the one fighting those two men the other day,” the man again chimed in, moving to point in Arthur’s face.

John knew what was coming before it came. Arthur didn’t move for a solid minute as he stared at the man, eyes lazily resting on his face. Then, it happened all too quick.

Arthur was a blur as he moved, picking the man up by the front of his shirt and slamming him down on the table behind them.

“You need to learn when to shut the hell up,” Arthur yelled, fist coming down with a dull thud on the man’s jaw. He tried to turn away from Arthur, but the big man held him firm. “Let me see that ugly mug.”

Marston wasn’t dumb enough to intervene, but lightly touched Arthur on the shoulder. “That’s enough, Arthur, let’s get out of here before any more trouble starts.”

Arthur hit the man a couple more times, blood splattering his shirt as he broke the man’s nose. Arthur picked him up off the table and threw him back down once more before turning and following Marston out of the saloon.

“Hey, I know a spot we can go,” Marston suggested as they climbed on their horses. “if you want.”

Arthur thought for a moment. He wanted to go back to camp, to sit next to the fire and write in his journal, write how mad he was for that boy Bill had killed. Write about how he wanted to scream and strangle Bill until he saw his eyes go dull. He needed to write in his journal so badly his hand itched.

“Nah, think I’ll head back to camp,” Arthur said.

Marston nodded, like he understood, and turned to head in the opposite direction.

But if Arthur went back to camp, he’d be stuck with the image of the boy’s bloody face in his head. Even if he drew it, it would still be there. His journal couldn’t help him breath to life what had happened, it would only continue to keep it locked away inside his head.

“Marston, where’s this place at? Let’s go,” Arthur said.


	6. Damn you

The spot Marston took Arthur to rested in the Heartlands, in the rolling hills of the Heartland Overflow. They sat on the jutted-out rocks from the grassy cliff and watched the herd of buffalo graze in the field just up the hill.

It was well into the night, and the moon crept behind the clouds and the stars poked through the sky in colors of pinks, blues, and whites. The air was a little crisp, but Arthur liked the way it prickled along his arms causing his hairs to stand up.

“You still mad?” Marston spoke for the first time since they'd gotten there.

“Of course I am, Bill…” Arthur’s voice was heated but trailed off, like he couldn’t find the right words to say.

“I don’t think he knew, Arthur, he was a good ways away when he shot him, he probably didn't know it was just a kid.” John quietly said. The last thing he wanted to do was take Bill’s side, but the dark-haired man just wanted to comfort Arthur.

“I told him the plan and he didn’t listen, that damned fool. And now an innocent kid, a kid, Marston, is dead.”

Marston watched Arthur hold his head in his hands, eyes closed and chest heaving. Ever so-slowly, he reached a hand out, placing it on the lower of Arthur’s back. He waited and when no knife came to his throat, left it there.

“Yeah, I know,” was all Marston could say.

Arthur felt the hand there, on his back, and instead of wanting to push it away, he wanted to lean back further into it and feel more of its warmth. He hadn’t been comforted before, and the last person he ever thought of as comforting would be Marston.

“Bill is a dumbass,” Marston finally said. Arthur chuckled lightly, and stretched, twisting his body away from Marston and then back. The movement left him closer to Marston, their shoulders nearly touching, and Marston still had his hand resting on the lower of Arthur's back. The older man wanted to take the comfort he was feeling and run with it, run faraway and never have to give it up. 

“Can I ask you something, Arthur?”

“Sure,”

“If Karen asked, would you sleep with her?”

Arthur didn’t answer for a moment, and Marston took the silence for Arthur thinking about Karen, about what it would look like, what it would feel like, to bed her.

But in reality, Arthur had finally figured out what he saw in Marston’s eyes earlier that day when the younger man had brought up Karen back in the saloon. Arthur was quiet because he realized now. He wrecked his brain, trying to remember if there were any earlier signs that hinted at it. But right now he couldn't think down one straight path, because his thoughts were running down every fork in the road and diverging every chance they could get. Until, all at once, his thoughts were brought back to the weight of the hand pressed to the small of his back. 

“No, I ain’t going to sleep with Karen,” Arthur finally said with a soft chuckle. “Why’s it matter?”

“I was jus’ wondering,” Marston spoke softly.

Arthur stole a glance at Marston, his skin a pale blue under the light of the creeping moon. He needed a damn haircut. It was a little ratted and he didn’t wear it well, but for whatever reason he kept it shoulder length. With roaming eyes, Arthur traced the scars on Marston’s face, and silently he was thankful he had found Marston when he did that day up in the mountains.

Marston turned and caught his eye and smiled a small, weak smile.

“Everything okay?” he asked Arthur.

“Everything’s just fine,” he muttered back. “So, how’d you find this place?”

“Hiding from Abigail,” Marston deadpanned.

“Ah, sometime Marston you gotta be a father, gotta be a man and stop hiding.” Arthur sighed.

“Everyone keeps tellin’ me what to do, how to do it, and it’s easy for them to say cause it ain’t their life. It ain’t that I don’t wanna be a father…I don’t know how to be one. I gotta raise a boy in this mess? I don’t want to, I don’t want my boy to be livin’ this kind of life and I don’t know how to teach him _not_ to because I don’t even know how to _not_ live this life,” Marston rambled and his hands moved while he talked, and all Arthur wanted to do was grab them to still them.

Arthur thought of two small graves outside a small farmhouse on a chilly, foggy fall morning. Thinking about how if he didn’t live the life he did, there wouldn’t be two small graves and he wouldn’t hate the way the fog hung in the mornings when it was cold.

He hadn’t felt it in a long time, but he suddenly felt empathy. Empathy for Marston because he remembered Eliza and Isaac, and he understood part of what Marston felt. He also resented Marston for it, for being able to have a family when he couldn’t and throwing it all away.

“Oh, calm, Marston, you’re gonna scare the buffalo,” Arthur opted to say instead of what he felt, causing Marston to sigh and hang his head.

“Marston, listen, this is the life we’re livin’, but that doesn’t mean Jack has to. He’s a smart boy, he’ll figure that out. What he needs right now, what you can give him right now, is a father. So be one. If I could, Marston, I’d go back just to be a father to my boy. We all don’t have the chance you’re given, and you’re blowin’ it away because you’re too damn scared.”

“That’s it, right? Why you don’t like me. You think I’m screwin’ up my family, while you don’t get to have one because some robbers killed them?”

Arthur’s head shot up, eyes falling on Marston in a heartbeat. So fast—they found Marston’s so fast—John almost lost his breath.

“You don’t get to talk ‘bout them, ever,” Arthur sneered. The hand that rested on his back moved, landing back in John’s lap as the younger man looked away, and Arthur pouted inwardly at missing the weight of it on his back.

He thought about it, long and hard. Quietly, stubbornly. And he hated it but he thought it through and he wanted it back. He reached for it, for John’s hand, and placed it back where it was on the small of his back.

Marston looked at him, an eyebrow raised, and a question forming on his lips.

“Just keep it there, Marston,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes slightly when Marston smiled—like he was happy Arthur wanted his touch.

“Do you think we’ll be all right, Arthur? The gang, I mean?” John said after some time.

“I do think so. Dutch’ll get us outta this mess, we just gotta stick with him.”

*

Arthur and John rode into camp that next morning after sleeping out at Heartland Overflow. Arthur expected Abigail to throw a fit again when she came walking around the wagon in their direction when they sauntered into camp. Instead, she looked at Marston and then Arthur, and he wasn’t sure, but Arthur thought he saw the hint of a smile on her face.

“There you are, my boys,” Dutch called to them, his arms held open as he walked from his tent. “Lenny, my boy, told me what happened with Bill.”

When Dutch didn’t say anything further on the matter, Arthur furrowed his brow. “He killed an innocent boy, Dutch. Just a kid.”

“I know, it saddens me, Arthur, really, it does. There are just somethings that happen out of our control, and we can’t go back and fix it or worry about it because it’s done. If I could, I would change it in a heartbeat, son. But right now, we need to focus on the people here, that are alive, that we need to keep alive.”

“Okay, Dutch,” Arthur agreed.

Dutch only patted each man on the shoulder before heading for the far side of camp. Arthur turned to head to the camps ledger but turned back to face Marston, a thoughtful look in his eyes.

“Thanks, Marston,” he said quietly, as if afraid anyone in camp would hear him.

“Always, Arthur,” John said back with a small smile.

Arthur put every cent and gem he had into the ledger, hoping that it was enough to feed everyone in camp. Sure, they were all a bunch of sad, sorry bastards, but he wouldn’t let them starve or die.

“Well look who decided to do some work,” it was Micah, and his damn raspy voice.

“Just what is your game?” Arthur asked. “You creepy, no good bastard.”

“What’s your problem with me?” Micah asked with a laugh, taking a step around the tent and closer to Arthur.

“You don’t fool me one bit,” Arthur threatened. Arthur didn’t really like Bill because of the man’s low intelligence, but Micah, he didn’t like Micah because there was something real bad about the man, and Arthur could feel it.

“You got such a chip on your shoulder, don’t you?” Micah chuckled.

Arthur closed the distance between them, giving Micah a good shove as he headed for his tent.

“I’m done with this now, you wait,” Micah called after him, but Arthur didn’t down right give a damn.

He sighed in relief when he met his bed, head hitting the pillow. He reached for his satchel and pulled out his journal. He hadn’t written in it for the last couple of nights, and when he grabbed his pencil, he hesitated, the tip of the pencil hovering over the blank page as he didn’t know where to begin.

He drew a picture first, of a boy on a stagecoach. It was a rough sketch, but Arthur drew a lopsided smile on the boy, because Arthur thought he had looked like a boy who would have a big, loose, lopsided smile. Then he drew Marston riding a Buffalo in the hills at Heartland Overflow. He didn’t know why, but there was Marston, on top a buffalo.

Below the sketches, he started to write.

_We robbed a stagecoach, Lenny, Bill, Marston, and me. It was supposed to be simple, but Bill, the dumb bastard, went and messed it all up. He ended up shooting a boy, just a kid, and killing him._

_And I reckon Marston was right, he didn’t know the kid was a kid when he shot him._

_Bill is still a moron._

_After the robbery, me and Marston went for some drinks. He kept asking me about Karen, because she won’t really leave me alone around camp. I got into a fight at the saloon with some lunatic, so we left, and Marston showed me this pretty place called Heartland Overflow he goes to when he’s hiding from Abigail._

_We talked. I found something out about Marston, I don’t think he knows I know, but I realized it on my own tonight. But we talked about families. We talked about Isaac and Eliza. Marston tried to comfort me with his stupid hand._

_I am perhaps a fool because it worked. Damn you, Marston._


	7. What the Hell?

_What is he doing?_ Marston lost track of how many times he had asked himself that question that morning. Marston had been following Arthur all morning, ever since the older man oh so quietly snuck out of camp. A few weeks had went by since Arthur had been almost torn to shreds, and even though he had healed some, Marston still saw the way the older man winced when he moved sometimes. That was Marston’s reasoning behind following the man—that, and just what the hell did Arthur do all day when he wasn’t at camp?

They were heading back toward New Hanover, off the path, and although John hung far behind Arthur, he could hear the man’s voice. _What is he doing?_ John thought again.

“Ya know what I mean, girl?” he heard Arthur say. It took Marston a moment to realize that Arthur was talking to his horse. Marston let a warm smile tug at his lips as he let his eyes fall close with a shake of his head.

Arthur came to a stop in the middle of the field and leaned over his horse, patting her lovingly on the side of her neck. Marston leaned forward in his saddle, arms resting on the horn; _Arthur showed his horse more affection and love than he showed anyone else in the gang_ , he thought.

Marston wasn’t prepared when Arthur straightened back up and turned his horse and veered off the path before coming to a stop in the middle of a dried upriver bed.

Is this really how Arthur spent his day away from camp? _What the hell is he doing?_ Marston sighed inwardly because no matter how many times he thought it, he never came any closer to finding the answer. He just watched as Arthur swung himself down off his horse and rummaged through his saddlebags before pulling out a brush. The older man gingerly started to brush down his horse, the dirt on the thick white coat coming off in a small cloud of dust.

“That’s it, let’s get you clean, girl,” Arthur said.

John sighed quietly, pinching the space between his eyes. Where was the Arthur John knew; the one spewing insults and throwing empty cans at Uncle? The one whose words dripped with sarcasm?

Marston’s attention snapped back to Arthur when he heard the man call his horse to get moving and headed back up the path to the hill.

They were now headed toward their old campsite, toward Horseshoe Overlook, and with a sigh, John began to wonder if Arthur ever spent his time away from camp doing anything productive.

Arthur took a turn and came to a stop in a clearing just beyond some trees. Marston slid from his horse, making sure to keep Old Boy hidden as he ducked further into the trees, keeping a close eye on Arthur as the man made his way across the clearing.

John saw him then, another man, short and clumsy, standing too close to the edge and fumbling with something in front of him.

“Mr. Mason,” Arthur said, causing the other man to jump.

“Oh, Mr. Morgan,” the man breathed in relief. Marston heard Arthur laugh as the outlaw threw his hands up in a gesture of innocence.

“You wanna be careful up here, the land is real treacherous,” Arthur warned in a light voice. For a moment, with Arthur smiling and talking in such a light voice, John forgot that the man talking was the same man who had walked straight up to John just a couple days prior and told him that he needed to wash his face because he was starting to scare people in the gang. 

John felt something then, a lump sitting heavy in his stomach. Jealously? Well, _of course he was_. Arthur once talked to John like that; no bite to his words, no rough around the edges. Just simple and light. _Stupid Mr. Mason,_ John thought.

Marston turned and headed back to Old Boy, ready to return to camp to drink all he could and listen to whatever crazy things Uncle had to say. A yell from Arthur, however, brought his attention back to the clearing, and the man, Mr. Mason, was gone.

Despite the hatred he already felt towards the man, John almost broke his cover to go see what happened, to go help a startled Arthur who had nearly jumped off the cliff himself. John watched as Arthur pulled the poor fool back up over the edge and tossed him on the ground.

Marston leaned back then, moving back further into the trees as he ignored the rest of Arthur and Mr. Mason’s conversation, feeling the intensity of the jealously turn to heat in his chest. He decided to wait for Arthur to leave, staying far away enough he didn’t have to hear what they were laughing about.

John found himself still following Arthur hours later, deciding that returning to camp would just be as much of a boring day as…whatever the hell Arthur was doing.

He followed far behind as Arthur roamed the countryside, occasionally getting off his horse to look at some bones sticking up out of the ground and writing something on a piece of paper. He didn’t know why Arthur was so interested in those old damn animal bones anyway. For an outlaw who killed and robbed for a living, Arthur seemed to take pleasure in the little oddities in the world, Marston thought.

John felt exasperated when the sun began to set behind the mountains and all that Arthur had done all day was search the countryside for those damned bones.

Marston sighed in relief when Arthur veered far off the path to set up camp in a secluded grove. Marston hesitated when he turned Old Boy around to head for their main camp; he wanted to stay with Arthur, but he knew he couldn’t just show up at Arthur’s camp or the older outlaw would know he had been following him. Marston cursed himself, he was a damned fool. He turned Old Boy around for good, heading back to Clemens Point.

“Hey, Marston,” he heard Arthur call out. John slowed his horse down and held his breath, sure he had misheard Arthur. But no, Arthur’s voice came again, ringing out over the trees. “I know you’re there; you fool.”

Marston smiled to himself as he turned Old Boy back around, glad that now he could spend some time with the other outlaw. But he’d have to answer as to why he’d been following Arthur all day, and the last thing John wanted to do was tell Arthur he was worried, slightly curious and very much interested in learning about how Arthur Morgan spent his time.

When John broke through the line of trees into the clearing, Arthur already had the fire going.

“Hello, Arthur,” Marston said, casually, as if he had just accidentally run into Arthur.

“Marston, what the hell have you been doing?”

“Could’ve been asking you the same thing, just been tryin’ to see what you get up to all day.” John sat down next to the fire, across from Arthur. He could see a smile on the older man’s face as he shook his head.

“Bet you feel like a fool for wasting your day.”

Arthur’s eyes were wide, the light hitting them and making them shine in a way Marston hadn’t seen in a long while. There was humor there in them—Arthur was in a good mood—for once. Suddenly jealously swelled up in Marston again, coming out of nowhere and forcing him to ask himself: _do you think it’s because he saw that Mr. Mason?_ He threw the thought out of his head.

“Is this what you do all day? Roam the hills looking for bones?” Marston said instead of _who the fuck is Mr. Mason and why are you in such a good mood?_

“Dinosaur bones, Marston, and people pay well for them.”

Arthur reached for his satchel, pulling out and unwrapping meat he had hunted earlier that day. Marston watched as the other outlaw set to work on crushing up herbs to season the meat. The way Arthur’s brows furrowed as he concentrated on cooking the meat had Marston wishing he could draw so that he could lock down that image forever.

“Abigail don’t care you been out all day?” Arthur’s rumble of a voice knocked Marston out of his reverie.

“Nah, she don’t really give a care. I needed to get outta camp, Micah and Dutch, needed to get away from all that crazy.”

At hearing Micah’s name, Arthur’s head shot up, the light leaving those blue eyes as something much darker took its place. “What crazy you talkin’ bout, Marston?”

“I dunno,” the black-haired man muttered, wishing like a damned fool he hadn’t said anything, because now Arthur was back to being that cold, distant Arthur he didn’t very much care for. “It’s just they been talkin’ a lot lately, and I don’t really like the way Micah is, is all I’m sayin’. They way Dutch acts a little different now that he came around.”

“Goddamned Micah,” Arthur spat.

John sat timidly, running a finger over a scar on his hands as he let Arthur stew in his hate for Micah. All the dark-haired man wanted to know was who the hell was Mr. Mason? _Not a good time to ask,_ Marston told himself. _Not a good time to ask…casually bring it up maybe. No, doesn’t matter. Arthur and him are just friends you fool. But just ask him casually who Mason is._

“Who the hell is Mr. Mason?” _That wasn’t casual_ , Marston thought, avoiding Arthur’s wandering eyes at his outburst.

“Albert Mason? Just some nut who is out to capture pictures of nature, so he says. I run into him now and again, he ain’t got a sense of how to survive. Had to save his life a couple ‘o times. Ain’t nothin’, Marston,” the way Arthur said the last part, as if it were an afterthought to sooth anything Marston might have been feeling off about, made the younger man feel like a child.

A few minutes passed until John finally looked up, and sure as shit, Arthur Morgan was staring at him, head tilted back and his chin pushed out in thought. “Why you really been following me, Marston?” Arthur asked.

Marston tried to look away again, away from the way Arthur’s eyes roamed his face as if the truth was there somewhere. “C’mon, Marston, look at me.”

“I don’t know, Arthur. You kinda just snuck out of camp and these past few weeks you been gone from camp a lot for days and you’re still kind of hurt. Just worried about ya, I guess is all.”

“Ah, you fool,” Arthur laughed. “I’m fine, don’t worry about ol’ me.”

Marston let a small smile creep onto his face, turning his eyes away from Arthur’s roaming ones.

“Let’s eat and head back to camp. I gotta talk to Dutch,” Arthur said after a long pause.

Marston groaned inwardly, because the last thing he wanted was to return to camp.

* * *

The ride back to camp had been the most Marston heard Arthur talk in such a long time—all Marston did was ask about the bones, the dinosaur ones Arthur seemed infatuated with—and Arthur had been a non-stop blabbering mess about the things. Marston would have asked earlier if he’d known that it would bring Arthur to life.

But the ride to Clemens Point wasn’t a long one by any means and it was over well before John wanted it to be. The outlaw was disappointed when Arthur climbed from his horse and headed straight to Dutch’s tent, not giving Marston so much as a goodbye.

Arthur, however, had a one-track mind. And sure as shit, when he reached Dutch’s tent, there was goddamned Micah, sitting on a crate and sharpening a knife.

“Micah,” Arthur murmured in greeting, his voice low and anything but welcoming.

“Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called…” Micah, the creepy bastard, began a speech that Arthur did not care for. The bigger man turned, looking around the camp for Dutch. He spotted Molly instead.

“Hey Molly, where’s Dutch?” Arthur asked, but before he even finished the sentence, Molly rolled her eyes and waved him off. The two were at each other’s throats again, which meant Dutch was somewhere hiding from her.

“…Well, however it goes,” Micah was finishing his sentence when Arthur turned back around to face him.

“I’m not sure that line of thought serves you or me very well,” Arthur finally said, acknowledging Micah. The man smiled and sheathed his knife as he stood face to face with Arthur.

“That’s because, cowpoke, you are a man of profoundly limited intelligence,” Micah laughed.

“No doubt,” was all Arthur said back, voice a low growl.

“Well, while you have been running around, doing whatever it is you do, old Mr. Pearson might have lightened the load on us a bit,” Micah said. “Hey, fatman,” he turned and called for Pearson.

“What’s all this about?” It was Dutch, coming up behind Micah, a cigar hanging loosely from between his fingers as he looked from Micah to Arthur, and then finally Pearson who had made his way over.

“Oh, Dutch, I was just telling Arthur here about something Pearson told me today,” Micah said, sweet and honeyed, the voice he used just for Dutch. “Go on fatman, tell them what happened.”

“I was out getting some supplies when I ran into a couple of the O’Driscoll boys,” Pearson said. “Things were about to get ugly, but you know how I am in a fight, like a cornered tiger,” Pearson clumsily jabbed the air in front of him with the small peeling knife in his hand and let out a small chuckle. When blank stares were all he got in response, he cleared his throat. “It didn’t end in a fight, though. And we got to talkin’, and they suggested a parley.”

Arthur let out a small snort that no one seemed to notice. He knew there was no way in hell Dutch would end things just like that with Colm. Not after Annabelle and all the trouble Colm O’Driscoll had caused.

“Peace? With Colm O’Driscoll?” Dutch growled, making his way closer to Pearson. Pearson, the old bastard, coward backward.

“Have you lost your minds?” Dutch warned.

“Always telling us, Dutch, to do what has to be done,” Micah chimed. “But don’t fight wars ain’t worth fighting.” Arthur wanted to punch him. He would’ve, if Hosea didn’t speak up.

“They want a parley?” he called from the table next to the fire where he sat reading a book. “It’s a trap.”

“Well, of course it’s a trap,” Micah stated, “but what have we got to lose finding out?”

“Get shot,” Arthur deadpanned, clenching his fists so that they wouldn’t connect with Micah’s face.

“I had an idea: Arthur could go and look out for you, protect you, so no one gettin’ shot or hurt,” Pearson said.

Arthur, with hands on his hips and lips pursed, turned to Mr. Pearson. “I’ve got an idea, Pearson,” he said. “stick to trying to make somethin’ edible, leave the thinkin’ to us,” then, as an afterthought, added, “damn, the slop you turned those poor deer into, unbelievable.”

Pearson’s brow furrowed with hurt, but Dutch silenced both of them with a hand.

“I don’t see the point in any of this,” Dutch said around the cigar in his mouth.

“It’s a chance we gotta take,” Micah encouraged.

Arthur couldn’t believe the man was trying to talk Dutch into settling things with Colm—after all the years they spent killing each other and all the things both gang leaders had done to each other. There wasn’t any room in their world for peace between each other.

“I killed Colm’s brother a long time ago,” Dutch said, looking away before adding, “and then he killed…a woman I loved dear.”

Arthur thought that was it, that Dutch was shutting down this joke of a plan. But Micah, the squirrely bastard, didn’t let go.

“As you say, it’s a long time ago, Dutch,” Micah almost sounded sincere, almost, and it made Arthur’s stomach flip when he saw the way Dutch hesitated, saw the way he was thinking about actually doing this. But, no, he wouldn’t be that stupid, Arthur thought.

Dutch threw his cigar down and finally looked up. “Let’s go,” he said. Arthur wanted to protest, wanted to punch Micah, but none of it would convince Dutch to not go through with this, because the older man’s mind was already made up and Arthur knew that there was no changing it.

So, he followed them, would protect Dutch and Micah just like Dutch wanted. But Arthur’s gut pleaded with him to listen to himself, but he knew that it would always be Dutch that would win out.

* * *

Arthur peered through the scope and watched as Micah and Dutch talked to themselves down below in the valley, somewhere in the Heartlands. Colm hadn’t showed yet, but Micah had convinced Dutch that these things take time and that Colm would show and that this whole goddamned plan was a good idea.

There was a pit in Arthur’s stomach, one that had opened and left him feeling uncomfortable and agitated. One that made his thoughts keep circling back around to Marston and the Heartland Overflow, to the weight of a hand on the small of his back.

The pit grew deeper when Arthur spotted horses heading their way. He watched as Dutch and Micah turned and faced the straggly haired man who slithered off the back of the horse.

Arthur couldn’t hear what they were saying but none of that mattered because his main focus was on keeping his gun pointed at Colm, ready to pull the trigger the moment the man made a wrong move.

The gun began to shake as the pit in Arthur’s stomach consumed his chest, and he willed himself to feel the weight of a hand on the small of his back. He was so focused, he didn’t hear the footsteps behind him until it was too late. He felt a sudden rush of air on his back and turned, only to be smacked in the side of the head with the end of a gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delayed update. This story doesn't really have set point during the game's timeline, the gang is at Clemens Point but other than that it doesn't really follow the game's timeline, just FYI :)


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